Beautiful disaster
by Glimmer Conlon O'Leary
Summary: {Slash} I don't know what he's after. But he's so beautiful; such a beautiful disaster. And if I could hold on through the tears and the laughter, would it be beautiful? Or just a beautiful disaster? I'm waiting for some kind of miracle.


Hey hey! As I wait for that pressing inspiration to write the next installment of "All Or Nothing", I got kicked in the ass by my Music!muse.

Apparently, it wants me to write a song-fic. This is what happens when Glimmer gets Kelly Clarkson's CD for Easter…-shrug- go figure.

Anyway…Here we go!

Luv and Mush pants,

Glimm

Beautiful Disaster 

****

The first time I saw him, I remember the feelings that rushed through me. He was beautiful; just like the sunrise. Or the sunset, whichever you prefer. Either way, he was beautiful.

The way he walked, the way he talked—without the accent the rest of us had, the way his hands moved.

I remember thinking that he was just about the most amazing sight I had ever laid eyes upon. I remember thinking that this world wasn't worthy of someone like him.

But we soon learned that he was a mess. His past haunted him at night, plagued him during the daylight hours. He was so jittery. So skittish. 

And it wasn't my idea, but we named him Skittery. But man, did it fit; like a glove, it did. 

I thought I'd lost my damn mind. I couldn't remember ever feeling that way about _anyone_, much less another _boy_.

I remember the feelings of shame that ran through me. To think what Mama would say if she knew that her good little Catholic boy was…was a queer.

But either way, I fell in love with him at first glance. But the thing was, he let no one, nobody, close to him. Ever.  If I tried to help him, would they find out what I was? What would they do? What would _he _do?

_He drowns in his dreams_

_An exquisite extreme, I know_

_He's as damned as he seems_

_And more Heaven than a heart could hold_

_And if I try to save him,_

_My whole world could cave in_

It just ain't right 

_It just ain't right_

It wasn't right to be feeling those feelings, to be having those emotions. But no matter how hard I tried to deny them, to squash them down into the depths of nowhere, they surfaced again, and each time with a vengeance.

And the thing was, as time went by, I found myself less concerned with what the other boys would think than with what _he_ would think. Would his eyes grow wide, then get that sickened look of disgust before he punched me, or worse: laughed at me?

But one day it all changed. 

Skittery pulled me into the empty bunkroom one night, when all the other boys were downstairs playing poker, craps, blackjack; and, the little ones, marbles. 

As soon as I had shut the door behind me; before I had a chance to get my heartbeat going fast, as it always did when I was around him—he grabbed me by the arms and slammed me into the wood.

"What the hell—"

But he cut me off with his own lips, hard and hungry. A tremor of shock ripped through my mind, my chest; but before I could stop myself, I kissed him back.

He ran his hands through my hair, and I remember thinking that his was oh-so-much nicer than mine. He had those shiny curls that I had so longed to touch.

So I did.  I ran my fingers through them, and, as I had expected, they were silky, smooth, and altogether as beautiful as he was.

He pulled away slowly, and, looking at his lips, those luscious lips; they were swollen and red. 

"Snitch…" He practically moaned my name.

_Oh, but I don't know,_

_I don't know what he's after_

_But he's so beautiful,_

_Such a beautiful disaster_

_And if I could hold on_

_Through the tears and the laughter,_

_Would it be beautiful?_

_Or just a beautiful disaster._

We felt our way, kissing, to the bunks, and collapsed onto the nearest one. We laughed when it creaked like it was going to collapse with out weight; when the springs sagged. 

He ripped off my shirt, and in his eyes I saw a passion like no other. His brown eyes burned with a fire that rages through the ages, and I grinned, for once not self-conscious of the teeth I felt were rather large. 

He planted wet, hungry, searing kisses onto my stomach, leaving me glistening.

Feeling as if I would burst if I didn't feel his skin on mine, I turned him onto his back and began to lift off his shirt.

The passion fled from his eyes like a child caught with the icing on his mouth from the suspiciously vanished chocolate cake that was supposed to be for after dinner.

"Whass wrong?" I asked, for once towering over him. 

"Don't…" He pleaded, his eyes brimming with shimmering tears. 

"Skittery why—"

"Please Snitch. Leave it on." At the look I gave him, a look of hurt, betrayal, and above all else, confusion; he sighed and pulled his own shirt off.

Despite myself, I gasped at what I saw. Angry white scars created a grotesque web on his chest, along his muscles. 

Hesitantly, stealing a timid glance at his face, I ran my fingers over the scars, feeling anger bubble up my back and sit, red and hot, on my neck; as I felt the way they raised and bumped over that soft skin. 

_His magical myth,_

_As strong as what I believe_

A tragedy with 

_More damage than a soul should see_

"Oh Skittery—"

He looked away from my eyes, and I saw him swallow heavily, exhaling slowly. 

"Skittery look at me. " He turned back to me, and the pain I saw in his eyes almost killed me right then and there.  "You'se poifect."

At that, he smiled a small, watery smile, and kissed me lightly on the lips. 

"And you, Snitch, are beautiful."

Little did he know it was he who was the beautiful one.

_And do I try to change him?_

_So hard not to blame him_

_Hold on tight_

Hold on tight 

We kissed and held each other that night, and eventually, in a fit of passion I could not control, I yanked off his pants.

He smirked. 

Then he reached down and slid his legs out of their trap before freeing mine as well.

Once we had relieved one another of the rest of our clothing, I looked down.

"Wow. Sa'prise, sa'prise."

He grinned, an expression so boyish and young that it clashed wonderfully with his old eyes. 

But as soon as I moved to touch, him, he whimpered and slid away, off the bed.

"Whass wrong now?" I asked him, feeling rejected

"I can't." He choked out the words, and the fear I heard in his voice scared me. He grabbed the sheet and wrapped it hastily around his waist. I did the same with one from another bed and stood in front of him.

"Why not?"

"I just _can't_."

"Why da hell _not_, dammit?!" I could feel the hurt and frustration rising in my body, and I didn't try to push it down.

_He's soft to the touch_

_But afraid at the end he breaks._

_He's never enough,_

_And still leaves more than I can take_

Not answering, he walked away, taking his clothes with him into the washroom. 

Devastated, I sat on the bed and held my head in my hands, shaking.

_I'm longing for love and the logical_

_But he's only happy hysterical_

_I'm waiting for some kind of miracle_

_Waited so long_

So long 

It felt as if I waited for an eternity. It was really only three months. Three months where stolen kisses in an alley, in the bunkroom, were the only contact I had with him.

During those three months, I thought a lot, really tortured, desperate thoughts. One night, sitting on the fire escape, I even plotted to tie him to the bed with Cowboy's rope and _make_ him touch me, _make_ him let me touch him.

But even as I thought it, I knew what it was. Rape. And I could never do that to him, especially when I caught an image of his gorgeous face, so full of fear and agony. 

_Oh 'cause I don't know,_

_I don't know what he's after_

_But he's so beautiful,_

_Such a beautiful disaster_

_And if I could hold on_

_Through the tears and the laughter_

_Would it be beautiful?_

_Or just a beautiful disaster._

I loved kissing him, loved touching his stomach, so firm and inviting. But what I wanted most was to _feel_ him.   And I don't mean to feel his upper body. I wanted to go _below the belt_, you could say.   

And damned curse of curses, I never got the chance.

They found him, three months after that first night. I remember it was five months after the strike.

December 17, 1899. The day that changed us all, but me most.

I hadn't seen him all night; and we were just beginning to wonder where the hell he was when Mush came clomping down the stairs, hollering that he had 'found Skittery!'

"Awright Mush, awright. Don't get ya knickahs in a twist," Race said, twittering from behind his stogie.

"_No _damn you!" Mush burst out, surprising us all. "I found 'im upstaiahs. He—He's dead."

All hell broke loose around me; and all I could do was sit, riveted in my chair. 

He's dead. He's dead. He's dead… 

It played over and over in my mind until I thought I'd go nuts. While the rest of the boys stood around, yelling at Mush for some answers, I pushed past them all and hurtled up the stairs.

I flew into the bunkroom, and skidded to a halt in front of the washroom. 

The sight that met my eyes nearly made me collapse.

My beautiful Skittery, my angel, lay on the ground, spread-eagled; blood pooled around his perfect body.

I'm waiting for some kind of miracle 

Miracles are for suckers. I stood there, my heart pounding, wailing to beat the band, until the other boys came hustling up.

I felt someone slam into the back of me. As the boys caught sight of the spectacle on the floor, curses flew and breathing grew loud and ragged.

Silence fell slowly. 

There's always silence when something like this happens. I don't know why, because I felt like howling, like screaming, like crying out "Why God?! Why did you let this happen?!"

But I remained silent.

Finally, Cowboy stepped forward. He walked slowly, carefully, over to where our fellow newsy lay.

Crouching down, he felt for a pulse.

"A awready did dat!" Mush hollered hoarsely from behind me, his voice betraying his trepidation.

But Jack did it anyway. And we all waited in tension anyway.

And when he shook his head, it was still a blow to my mind, to my heart. 

I felt my legs back my body into the wall and slide down it onto the floor. I felt their eyes turn to me, wondering.

I cracked open my left eye and watched Jack sigh, his eyes dark and full of regret. His eyes slid over to the sinks, where a bloodied razor lay. He cleared his throat, and I saw him physically tear his eyes away from the lethal weapon. 

I saw his hands reach into the next sink and pull out a piece of paper. I recognized Skittery's handwriting even from the distance, even backwards, bleeding through the paper.

Bleeding.

Clearing his throat again, Jack looked down at the paper.

_"Boys," _he read.

_"Sorry. Really, I am. I just couldn't take it anymore. I couldn't please him, not when I was so afraid; not when each time he made a move to touch me, images of my father whipped through my mind. _

_You're wondering who he is. I won't tell you; to keep him protected, you can't know._

_But, my beautiful boy; remember that I love you. And know that I wanted to stay, but I couldn't stand not being able to love you like I wanted to. Like _you_ wanted me to._

_In the end, I guess my inability killed me._

_And I'm sorry._

_But know this:  you are truly beautiful. And know this as well: I was just a disaster waiting to happen._

_But I'm sorry. I'm so sorry that even the whole world chanting the phrase as one could not come close to telling you just how much so._

_We will be together one day._

_We will be together one day._

_Skittery"_

I remember the night Jack read that. I remember the remorse on his face as he realized what it all meant. 

And as his eyes slid over to me, carefully, so as not to alert the other boys of whom 'he' was; I knew he knew that as well.

And I never got the chance to thank him for keeping my secret. For keeping _our _secret.

But I don't really believe that's all that important.

What's important is that I tried to save him. _I tried to save Skittery God dammit. _And my world caved in, just as I had feared.

I waited for so long, and my miracle never came.

I don't understand how he could just be gone.

It was so long ago that he left this world.

I always said it wasn't worthy of him.

I guess I wasn't either.

_But he's so beautiful,_

_Such a beautiful disaster._

**_{End-notes} _**My lord I've done it. I lost my mind. I set out to write some angst, maybe Spot, and then I did it. I went and did the thing I said I would never do. I wrote Snitch/Skittery. NJL ladies, you know that I hate S/S slash! You know! So what am I thinking?! And…and why did I enjoy writing it? I need to get some help. 

**Glimmer continues questioning her sanity, but leaves you alone to review and question it as well**


End file.
